Travis Huck, I also got a bunch of nothing. But something about him still bugs me, Loo. Nervous and evasive.”
“Maybe because he’s protecting the Vanders.” Milo summarized what we’d learned from Marc Green.
Reed said, “Weirdo parties. We need to learn more about these people.”
An open door brought in a rush of traffic noise. A good-looking black man had entered the restaurant.
Early thirties, six feet tall, closely cropped hair, athletic frame packaged neatly in a body-conscious charcoal suit. A peacock-blue silk shirt gleamed. So did black alligator loafers.
The woman in the sari approached him. A few seconds of conversation got her to smile. The man headed for our table, gliding more than walking.
Milo said, “Blast from the past.”
Moe Reed shifted in his chair. His face had changed, lips folding inward, eyes tight, pale irises barely visible between half-closed lids. One hand gripped his tea glass.
A cloud of light, grassy cologne preceded the man’s arrival. He had the clean features and poreless skin of a young Belafonte. Grinning, he held out a hand to Milo. “Congratulations, recently promoted Lieutenant Sturgis.” The suit was hand-stitched with peaked lapels and working buttonholes on the sleeves.
ADF
monogram on the blue shirt. The reptilian shoes looked brand new.
Milo said, “Long time, Former Detective Fox. This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist, and this is—”
Moe Reed said, “I know him,” and turned away.
The man stared at him for a moment. Tightened his jaw. Smiled at me. “Aaron Fox, Doctor. The world can use more psychologists.” I shook a warm, dry hand.
Pulling up a chair from a neighboring table, Fox positioned it backward and straddled. Pouring himself tea, he sipped. “Ahh, nice and refreshing, tastes like there’s some white tea in there, maybe a nuance of jasmine.”
Reed gazed out the window. Both his hands were curled into fists.
Milo said, “So there’s no need to introduce you two.”
Aaron Fox laughed. “Not unless one of us has Alzheimer’s.” He placed a palm on Reed’s beefy shoulder. “Your brain working okay, Moses? From what I can tell, mine’s still functional.”
Reed sat there.
Fox said, “Brain like yours, Moses, probably stay good in the foreseeable future.”
Reed stared past him.
Fox said, “He’s always been modest. Back when we were kids, I’d take every bit of exaggerated credit I could for the most trivial, picayune accomplishments. Marketing and promotion, right? It’s not enough to have the product, you’ve got to sell it. Little brother doesn’t believe in that. He’s smarter than me. But he’s never been one to toot his own horn.”
Reed removed Fox’s hand and set it down with exquisite care.
Aaron Fox said, “I’m always doing that. Embarrassing him. Older brother’s prerogative.”
Milo said, “You guys are sibs?”
“You didn’t know?” said Fox. “Oh, yeah, two dips into the same gene pool, but X chromosome only — same mommy, different daddies. I’ve always suspected she liked him better. He’d probably claim the opposite. That right, Moses?”
Reed pushed away from the table and headed to the bathroom.
Fox said, “Didn’t know I still had that effect on him.”
He drank more tea.
Milo indicated the food. “You like Indian?”
“Nothing against it, Milo, but I prefer fusion cuisine. Chinois, Medi-California, Southwest sushi. Artistic mélange of cultures brings out the best in human creativity. Been to that new place on Montana? Wagyu beef from Japan, they massage the beasts before cutting their throats. Kind of like the department, huh?”
Milo smiled. “How long you been out of the job, Aaron?”
“Centuries,” said Fox. “To be precise, three years this September. Maybe I should throw a party.”
“Looks like private enterprise agrees with you.”
“I don’t argue with it so it’s got no reason to
dis
agree with me.” Touching a silk sleeve. “Yeah,
“Maybe because he’s protecting the Vanders.” Milo summarized what we’d learned from Marc Green.
Reed said, “Weirdo parties. We need to learn more about these people.”
An open door brought in a rush of traffic noise. A good-looking black man had entered the restaurant.
Early thirties, six feet tall, closely cropped hair, athletic frame packaged neatly in a body-conscious charcoal suit. A peacock-blue silk shirt gleamed. So did black alligator loafers.
The woman in the sari approached him. A few seconds of conversation got her to smile. The man headed for our table, gliding more than walking.
Milo said, “Blast from the past.”
Moe Reed shifted in his chair. His face had changed, lips folding inward, eyes tight, pale irises barely visible between half-closed lids. One hand gripped his tea glass.
A cloud of light, grassy cologne preceded the man’s arrival. He had the clean features and poreless skin of a young Belafonte. Grinning, he held out a hand to Milo. “Congratulations, recently promoted Lieutenant Sturgis.” The suit was hand-stitched with peaked lapels and working buttonholes on the sleeves.
ADF
monogram on the blue shirt. The reptilian shoes looked brand new.
Milo said, “Long time, Former Detective Fox. This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist, and this is—”
Moe Reed said, “I know him,” and turned away.
The man stared at him for a moment. Tightened his jaw. Smiled at me. “Aaron Fox, Doctor. The world can use more psychologists.” I shook a warm, dry hand.
Pulling up a chair from a neighboring table, Fox positioned it backward and straddled. Pouring himself tea, he sipped. “Ahh, nice and refreshing, tastes like there’s some white tea in there, maybe a nuance of jasmine.”
Reed gazed out the window. Both his hands were curled into fists.
Milo said, “So there’s no need to introduce you two.”
Aaron Fox laughed. “Not unless one of us has Alzheimer’s.” He placed a palm on Reed’s beefy shoulder. “Your brain working okay, Moses? From what I can tell, mine’s still functional.”
Reed sat there.
Fox said, “Brain like yours, Moses, probably stay good in the foreseeable future.”
Reed stared past him.
Fox said, “He’s always been modest. Back when we were kids, I’d take every bit of exaggerated credit I could for the most trivial, picayune accomplishments. Marketing and promotion, right? It’s not enough to have the product, you’ve got to sell it. Little brother doesn’t believe in that. He’s smarter than me. But he’s never been one to toot his own horn.”
Reed removed Fox’s hand and set it down with exquisite care.
Aaron Fox said, “I’m always doing that. Embarrassing him. Older brother’s prerogative.”
Milo said, “You guys are sibs?”
“You didn’t know?” said Fox. “Oh, yeah, two dips into the same gene pool, but X chromosome only — same mommy, different daddies. I’ve always suspected she liked him better. He’d probably claim the opposite. That right, Moses?”
Reed pushed away from the table and headed to the bathroom.
Fox said, “Didn’t know I still had that effect on him.”
He drank more tea.
Milo indicated the food. “You like Indian?”
“Nothing against it, Milo, but I prefer fusion cuisine. Chinois, Medi-California, Southwest sushi. Artistic mélange of cultures brings out the best in human creativity. Been to that new place on Montana? Wagyu beef from Japan, they massage the beasts before cutting their throats. Kind of like the department, huh?”
Milo smiled. “How long you been out of the job, Aaron?”
“Centuries,” said Fox. “To be precise, three years this September. Maybe I should throw a party.”
“Looks like private enterprise agrees with you.”
“I don’t argue with it so it’s got no reason to
dis
agree with me.” Touching a silk sleeve. “Yeah,
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